


The Book of Daniel

by nyxocity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Future Fic, Legendary Winchesters (Supernatural), M/M, POV Outsider, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26151811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxocity/pseuds/nyxocity
Summary: Daniel prays to them, every single night, now. When there's nothing left to believe in, believe in Winchesters.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 28
Kudos: 77





	The Book of Daniel

His earliest memory is when he spilled a can of paint on the steps of his back porch. He was two, watching liquid black creep over white concrete when he realized what it meant to be completely terrified. Even at two, he understood that it would never come off. His mother would be furious.  
  
He supposes that brick house still exists somewhere, indelible mark spilled across its white porch, buried beneath years of leaves and dirt.  
  
The world was different then.  
  
His mother used to read him thin books with bindings of gold that told stories of puppies, ducklings and kittens. Stories where no matter how bad off the characters were, they were always happy in the end. He remembers that, too. That was before he turned four.  
  
His mother was different then, too.  
  
He remembers kind hands that stroked his hair into place and rubbed the dirt from his face. Warm arms that wrapped around him and held him close, chasing away the shadows and monsters in the night.  
  
But what he remembers most is when he was five, playing with toy soldiers in the backyard, moving them across the knobby roots of the old oak tree that poked above the ground. He remembers the grass, how green it was, just tall enough to hide his army inside, the feel of the sun on his back, the sound of his mother’s voice ringing out, calling him for lemonade.  
  
He remembers how her voice still hung in the air as the sun disappeared.  
  
The world was different, then.  
  
It is night time, campfire flaring yellow and orange within the barrier of rocks. It flickers against the sand, its dance confined by the surface that reflects it.  
  
Daniel closes his fingers, threading them around his metal bowl, tucking his head tight, chin to chest. His bowl is still empty, scent of cooking rabbit filling the stagnant, humid summer air. He scuffles his boot against the hard, sandy earth, sound grating out across the late evening camp.  
  
The desert has crept as far as this; as far east as Louisiana, although it hasn’t eaten everything yet. Somewhere further east are the receding swamps and all their greenery. Daniel longs to see them again as much as he dreads it. They always give him hope.  
  
The people around him bustle with their usual evening activity, spoons to bowls. Tonight there is eager chatter, everyone bright-eyed and pleased; tonight they’re blessed with meat. It’s easier to catch monsters these days than edible food, and Daniel figures that’s probably a reason for them to celebrate.  
  
They’ll forgive him if he doesn’t join in.  
  
_Daniel is five, toy soldiers still in his hands as he stares up at the sky. It turns a shade of sickly-pale green as he watches, black clouds roiling across its surface.  
  
“Mommy… what happened to the sun?”  
  
His mother stands in shattered glass, puddle of lemonade around her feet.  
  
“Come inside.”_  
  
Daniel remembers the world before everything changed. But he grew up in _this_ world; the one where the Winchester brothers gave everything to save the world--almost gave their own lives. He’s seen the hole that used to be Chicago, and the jagged tear in the sky, green-black clouds billowing out, like sickness, like death.  
  
Even growing up in this world, Daniel’s mother always made him say grace before dinner, taught him to always thank God for his food. No one says grace here. No one tries to finds words of God to comfort them. The world has moved past those concepts, now. People dig in with their spoons or forks and avoid looking at each other, hoping no one realizes that God has abandoned them. But Daniel…  
  
Daniel prays to _them_ , every single night, now, hands clasped around his bowl, head bowed before dinner comes. He started praying to them a couple weeks ago, after he saw the carnage left in the wake of the creatures they’re tracking. He’s seen a lot of bad things in this world—a lot of terrible, horrific things—but the bodies of his last team were shredded, torn apart, intestines strung everywhere like they’d… _played_ with them. Like they’d enjoyed it.  
  
He can’t remember any of it. Shock, Jack had declared when they’d found him.  
  
From the distance comes the sound of trotting hoof beats. The men around the fire tense, hands reaching for their guns as two riders approach, dark silhouettes cut from purple sky. They look normal enough, form what Daniel can see of them; two men on horseback—no monsters—but no one relaxes even a fraction as they tie their horses, dismounting with practiced motions.  
  
One is long and tall, predatory grace in his every step, duster swinging behind. The other is only a few inches shorter, but they couldn’t be more different, confident swagger to this one’s step as he leads the way toward the fire.  
  
"I’m Dean," the man says, boots stepping just inside the circle of firelight. Daniel’s heart leaps in his chest, skipping a beat and then speeding out of control. The light falls on Dean’s face, and Daniel can see that he’s beautiful, wide mouth and high cheekbones, stubble peppering his angular jaw line. Daniel can just see a hint of silver at Dean’s temples, fading into a sandy color before it disappears beneath his hat.  
  
"This is Sam," Dean adds, nodding to the man just behind him. Dean has so much presence that Sam could be a footnote, but he isn’t; a man made of shadow, but _substance_ , his presence almost overwhelming Dean’s voice in the foreground.  
  
Daniel’s heart is pounding in his chest, mind trying to catch up to what his heart already knows.  
  
"Winchester?" someone asks, and Daniel’s eyes close for an instant.  
  
Them. It’s _them_. Legends stepping out of the night like ghosts to answer his prayers.  
  
Dean turns his face to look at the rest of the group, and Daniel can see the terrible trench of a scar etched into Dean's other cheek, jagged and dark as it twists upward, stopping just short of his right eye. Dean winks, scar wrinkling with the flex of skin, and he lifts his hand, firelight glinting off of a heavy pistol.  
  
"Winchester," Dean confirms. The scar crinkles into Dean's eye when he smiles, and it's beyond charming; it's dead sexy. There are deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, others dug deep into the laugh lines, each earned with blood and years, and yet he smiles, even laughs, a low, inviting sound as he tips his hat.  
  
Sam doesn’t smile. His boots are as scuffed as his coat, like he and Dean have been wandering too long on different roads, even though both of them rode in from the West. Sam bears no guns, curved blade of a knife played between his palms, edge catching with fire light. The corner of his mouth twists in a wry smile, and it's not charming, doesn't blend like Dean's smile does. His eyes are flat and distant; a man who's seen more battles than he wanted to.  
  
Sam holds the knife like it’s part of him, an extension of his hand, as he tilts his head, stares down. When he speaks, his voice is deep like sepulcher, like old graves cracked open, and Daniel can’t catch the words themselves, just the sound. Sam speaks only a few words to Dean, and Dean nods, face smooth and expressionless for a moment. Sam seems entirely unconscious of the effect his presence has as he steps into the circle, orange firelight catching across his sharp cheekbones, eyes taking in everyone and everything. He doesn’t speak, but there is language in the way his fingers glide across his brother's shoulder, the slightest turn of his head, the low glimmer of his eyes as he takes in their surroundings.  
  
Everything is tense and hushed, and Daniel can feel the frayed nerves of everyone around him pull tight. They’re scared, Daniel thinks, and he doesn’t know why they should be. They are Winchesters, after all, and even if they don’t say much, everything they do—the way they move—speaks so much louder than words. They've been to hell and back, these two, and they’re still alive.  
  
Dean shuffles a step closer to the fire, sand whispering beneath the tread of his boot. "Saw the smoke from your fire,” he says, looking up from under the brim of his hat. “Thought there might be trouble.” Dean’s eyes settle on Jack, seeming to pick him out as the leader.  
  
"No trouble," Jack says and clears his throat, like he’s nervous. "Just a group a hunters, camping. No need for... ya'll to be here. That is, unless you were wanting to," he adds.  
  
Dean smiles, easy and smooth as quicksilver. "Wouldn't want to be a bother. Thought you might need our help."  
  
“Not like we couldn’t use it,” Jack says with a thin, reedy laugh. “Some people say; too many cooks spoil the meal," Jack goes on, warming to the subject. He's wearing an old flannel, American colors of red, white and blue threaded through it, stained collar of his undershirt beneath. He spits into the sand, clenches his jaw down and meets Dean's eyes. "And I say fuck that."  
  
"Stew's ready," Jimmy announces quietly, almost like he’s afraid to say so.  
  
Metal bowls pass around the circle, hand to hand, and Jimmy spoons out the stew. The boy at the end of the row--Shawn, Daniel thinks--passes bowls to Sam, and then Dean, not quite able to meet their eyes.  
  
Sam slides his knife into the sheath, and a level of tension Daniel had barely been aware of suddenly evaporates. Sam settles down against the hard packed earth, long legs folding over each other as he lifts the spoon to his mouth, glancing at Dean for a second before his eyes fall back upon the fire. Dean's the only one who watches Sam, besides Daniel. No one else has quite the nerve to look.  
  
"Good stew," Dean nods, setting his spoon down in the bowl. He cocks his head in Jack’s direction, eyes glinting in the shadows beneath the brim of his hat. "So what’re you hunting?"  
  
"Werewolves," says a youngish man sitting a couple spaces down. Daniel's pretty sure his name is Michael. "A whole pack of them, we think."  
  
"It has to be a pack," Jack agrees, voice steady and sure. Dean squints at him, listens as Jack says, "Dozen or more."  
  
Sam leans into Dean, whispering something into Dean's ear that the rest of them can't hear, and Dean nods.  
  
"How much silver you got?" Dean asks, raising his chin. There’s a shrewd, calculating look in his eyes, eyes roving over each and every member of the group, appraising them, evaluating them. Above them, in the dark, heavy sky, the moon isn't full. Things like moon phases don't govern werewolves anymore, don't even govern the tides. The only thing that’s stayed the same is that silver kills them. It's _all_ that kills them.  
  
"We've got a box full of bullets made o' silver," Jack says.  
  
"Well," Dean says, nodding with just the faintest hint of a smile. "That might just be enough."  
  
When the meal is finished, they all bed down for the night, rustle of canvas against the sandy earth. Sam and Dean have their own bedroll, faded army green, frayed and tufting stuffing at one corner, and they tuck into it together like it's normal; a known thing, understood. The few people that aren't distracted by other pleasures notice this, watch with wondering eyes. No one, not a one of them ever suspected this. Brother lying with brother, wrapped in each others arms like it's right, like it's normal, like they've done it more than a hundred times. More than a thousand.  
  
Brothers. Sam and Dean. Legends. And they... sleep together. Like lovers. Maybe, Daniel thinks, as he falls into sleep, that's not so wrong. Maybe, in this world, it's the best any of them could hope for.  
  
*  
  
In the morning, under the cold dawn light, Daniel cleans his rifle. He shines it as bright as Dean's boots, bright as Dean’s smile. He has always done this; it's the way of things.  
  
His company before this one moved as efficient as military, even if they were just a group on the run. He’s only been with this group a couple of weeks, and this one is no different; manning their defenses, cleaning their weapons, talking low, rough and dirty over the meager meal of beans and rice. It's the only meal they'll get before they camp tonight, and Daniel eats his bowlful with vigor. He'll need it; running and tracking through the harsh sun of the daytime is not for the meek.  
  
After the sky ripped open and the sun changed, Daniel’s mother used to read him stories about God. She told him that Jesus, the son of almighty God, said that the "the meek shall inherit the earth." That "turning the other cheek" would win the game. That God was merciful and loved all. That he forgave; that all of them had a place in his plan.  
  
Daniel's mother died when he was sixteen, choking in a pool of her own blood, throat worried to ribbons by Hellhounds. He loved her, but he doesn't believe a word she ever said.  
  
Across from him, over the dying embers of last night’s fire, Sam and Dean lean close to each other, exchange words meant for no other human being.  
  
He wants, more than anything, to know what they're saying to each other. What they _mean_ to each other. Casual glances and raised brows, all too human in the harsh light of the rising sun. And yet there's a knowing in them. For all Dean's bluster, for all Sam's intimidating silence, there is a peace about them. An acceptance of what _is_.  
  
Daniel wants to understand that.  
  
*  
  
They march east, sighting the beginning of the swamplands before the sun marks noon. They set the horses free at the edge of the tree line, watching them kick up dust as they gallop back out across the desert.  
  
“They got better odds than we do,” Dean tells him, hard glint of sun reflected in his eyes.  
  
The desert gives way to dirt after a few miles, trees growing thicker around them as they move on. Sam and Dean walk together, apart and yet somehow part of their marching line. Daniel’s eyes are drawn to them time after time, all through the day.  
  
"What kind of rifle you packing?" Dean finally asks, leaning in as they walk together, his step almost jaunty. His long coat is wet, dragging thick across the high grass, but he hardly seems to notice, moves like it's so much a part of him that it's nothing; accepts its weight and takes it along.  
  
"Winchester," Daniel answers and ducks his head. He knows how fanboy he sounds. He doesn't mean to. "Rifle that won the West," he adds, blushing hard. "Figure it's good enough for this."  
  
Dean tilts his head away, nods. "Good choice. Solid."  
  
"It's not…" Daniel starts to say.  
  
Sam’s voice cuts between them, deep and gritty—so gritty it makes Daniel shiver.  
  
"It works."  
  
Daniel nods, tucks his head back down and falls into line.  
  
The forest is thick, overgrown, vines and tendrils creeping around trees and sliding into the carcasses of dead animal bones. The world is taking back what's been owned, reclaiming it for a new, better time. For a better race.  
  
His mother had judgment day all wrong; it's not about the people who deserve heaven being taken home. It's about blood and death. Rotting and suffering. The slow moldering of animal bones; the fecund draw of the world back into itself.  
  
_“Don't think of this world, Danny. Live for the next. For it's there we'll find our great reward. God gives to all to those who live their lives for him.”  
  
“God is dead,” he tells her in no uncertain terms. He watches her head fall, sad twist to her mouth before he slams the door._  
  
The men in front of him stomp their feet; left, right, up and down, trampling weeds, carving a meager path through the underbrush. At the head of the group, Jack makes a sound like triumph, thrusts his arms up and out. Jack’s gun glints in his hand, low, dull, metallic gleam beneath the grind of the sun, light splintering from it, spilling down his spine.  
  
_Silverback_ , Daniel thinks, and the word won't leave him.  
  
*  
  
Later, after dinner, Sam and Dean sit near the fire, and everyone else sits back, nearer to their tents.  
  
Daniel whittles at a piece of wet wood, pocket knife scraping away damp bark and revealing pale wood like bone beneath. He glances up every now and then, feeling he doesn’t quite know the name of filling him whenever he sees them, hunkered down so close together, not a word spoken between them; not a single one needed.  
  
He slices away another layer of wood, thumb working mechanically, and glances up again.  
  
They’re both staring straight at him.  
  
Dean’s eyes shine almost clear green, caught by the light. “Why are you so fascinated by us?” he asks.  
  
“Because… you’re _you_. You’re legends,” Daniel answers, looking at the two of them across the campfire light; their hard features carved from orange, more than half lost to the black of night. “You saved the world.”  
  
Dean tilts his head, shadow catching across the scar on his cheek. “Some people think we did more harm than good.”  
  
“The world’s still here,” Daniel says, shrugging.  
  
“Yep.” Dean nods, quick and hard. “Question is… how much do you like living in it?”  
  
He doesn’t. No one does. Daniel hesitates, and he sees something in Dean’s face that’s almost like triumph.  
  
“It’s better than nothing,” he answers.  
  
There’s a shuffling at the edge of the campfire, Jack nodding stiffly as he passes by them into the trees.  
  
Dean turns his head, watching Jack disappear… and then slowly looks back to Daniel. “We make him nervous.”  
  
“He thinks you’re dangerous,” Daniel admits.  
  
“He’s right.” Sam’s voice sends a shiver down Daniel’s spine.  
  
“You’re not scared of us, though,” Dean says, thoughtfully, almost like a question.  
  
“No,” Daniel agrees, voice quiet, almost soft. The sound seems out of place here, among the rough voices speaking in the background. “I… I just want to understand,” he says.  
  
Sam’s eyes level on Daniel, and Dean tilts his head again, measuring Daniel’s words.  
  
“I mean,” Daniel adds, hesitant. “How do you… keep loving each other…. in _this_ world?”  
  
Dean and Sam look at each other, and there are so many conversations in that look; whole languages spoken that Daniel can’t understand, but he sees the love, the trust implicit between them.  
  
Dean pulls his eyes from Sam, looking at Daniel across the fire.  
  
“Because that’s what keeps us alive,” Dean tells him.  
  
*  
  
Daniel wakes in the middle of the night, eyes opening and hand tightening around the rifle kept in his hand. The camp is silent save the crackling of the fire, wood popping with an almost merry sound. He can’t see the sky through the canopy of trees above them, has no sense of time. He sits up slowly, looking around the camp; sees the sleeping bodies of his group spread out around the fire, the two sentries posted at the edges of the camp.  
  
Sam and Dean’s sleeping bag is empty, and Daniel rises from his bedroll silently, gun gripped in his hands. He can hear the sound of water from here, trickling stream not far from where they’ve camped, and he moves through the trees toward the sound, guided by a feeling he can’t quite name.  
  
There are smooth stones and dirt at the banks of the stream, and he kneels, scooping out a handful of cold water and lifting it to his mouth. He bends his head, pushing the water from his palm into his mouth without a sound; eyes watching the forest around him—  
  
There, across the stream, half-hidden by the underbrush, he can see them.  
  
Moonlight cutting through the trees, shining at the edges of their bodies; locked together, fused, muscles rippling, no telling where Dean begins and Sam ends. Hands gripping shoulders, hips thrusting, fingertips grasping at the tree bark, back arching into the curve of his brother’s body. Dean’s mouth sealed against the delicate skin of Sam’s throat, whispering something into his brother’s ear as he moves. Daniel can see the way Sam smiles, tilting his head up and back, thrusting even harder into his brother. They’re beautiful; two people in motion as one, two hearts beating together in perfect rhythm.  
  
Dean’s teeth are white and flat, closing around the softness of Sam’s earlobe, Sam hissing out approval, bodies rippling like a serpent’s in one long motion. Dean’s rough knuckles moving, flowing over the length of Sam’s cock, stroking so slow, so patient and reverent.  
  
It’s pure; sacred. Love in the most divine form Daniel’s ever seen it, and it’s almost too much hold.  
  
He shouldn’t be here; shouldn’t be watching this.  
  
Dean’s eyes roll up from over Sam’s shoulder, hips working insidious rhythm as he grinds into his brother, whites just visible at the edges, moonlight catching in the green, reflected perfectly back at Daniel, pupils narrowing to a focus on the place where he stands. Daniel’s heart freezes in his chest, stutters, and then thunders out a sudden, hammering rhythm.  
  
_Do you see? Do you understand?_  
  
Yes.  
  
They are animal and man all at once, wild and free. Crafty beasts caged and barely contained, but just enough.  
  
Daniel bites down against his lower lip and tastes copper, bright and sharp.  
  
He understands.  
  
It’s nothing he can ever have.  
  
He gathers his gun against him and turns away, stepping silently through the underbrush.  
  
*  
  
Dawn is gray, sky turning a darker shade of green as thunderclouds roll in.  
  
Daniel can’t shake the unease that settles in between his shoulder blades, fingers itchy against his rifle. Sam and Dean flank him, silent ghosts on either side that do nothing to settle the feeling churning inside him.  
  
They trek on through the wet forest, trees and leaves and vines so thick that Daniel can imagine them choking the life out of the land. The sunlight is patchy, cutting through the trees in thick shafts highlighted by steam rising from the ground, cool of the night burning off. Everything is silent except for his group’s footsteps through the undergrowth.  
  
The leaves explode with force and sound, something gray and black bursting from the tangle. It barrels into Sam, taking him straight in the chest, and Daniel can’t make heads or tails of what’s happening, can’t train his rifle on anything solid.  
  
It’s a werewolf, he realizes, blood going cold—its eyes yellow as decay, pupils slitted black, teeth snapping centimeters from Sam’s throat, Sam’s strength alone holding it back. Dean’s already there, already in motion, cutting between the creature and the rest of the group.  
  
It happens fast; one moment, the monster is hurling itself through the air, claws and fangs outstretched—and the next it’s lying on the ground with half a dozen bullet holes in it, eyes glazing over, bleeding out red into the green of fresh leaves.  
  
Dean shares a look with Sam as Sam rises from the ground, and Daniel can see the questions in Dean’s eyes, the slight nod of Sam’s head.  
  
They’re okay, they’re both okay.  
  
*  
  
The ground slopes downward, and they trudge on, feet slipping against the muddy ground until Daniel stops, looks up. Trees and vines pull out and upward away from them, rising to form a lip around a depression in the earth at least fifty yards wide.  
  
The air around them is still, hushed as if waiting, and Daniel notices suddenly how dark it’s grown, light fading fast. “We should have pitched camp an hour ago,” he breathes.  
  
The looks on Sam and Dean’s faces show nothing but knowing, solemn resignation.  
  
In the distance, there is a howl, long and loud, like the end of life itself.  
  
_“In the end,” his mother whispers, “it’s God who will take in the measure of the man you were.”_  
  
“I prayed for both of you to come and help us,” Daniel whispers.  
  
The look shared between them this time is one Daniel doesn’t understand at all.  
  
It happens fast; sun sinking below the horizon as screams cut through the air.  
  
He watches Jack transform; fingers stretching, knuckles buckling, black fur sprouting as he turns his face to the sky and howls. Fingernails lengthening into claws, scratching at the earth, spine snapping and reforming, pure line of silver fur accentuating every knob of bone.  
  
_Silverback_  
  
Everyone, everything he has known comes apart, bodies exploding in change, hands and feet touching ground, turning to paws.  
  
“They lured us here,” Daniel whispers, hands numb at his sides. The animals that killed his last troupe are right here; have been all along.  
  
Dean draws both guns from his holsters, thumbs clicking off the safety in the split second before he fires.  
  
_Boom Boom Boom_  
  
Three werewolves fall around Daniel in a semi-circle, red of their hearts spattering the ground. Dean moves in front him, shoulders squared and spread wide, guns pumping out a staccato rhythm. Sam stands beside Dean, silver of his knife catching another werewolf across the throat, other hand spread wide as he whispers something so guttural and deadly that Daniel shudders just to hear it.  
  
Another three werewolves fall dead where they stand.  
  
_“You’d best pray, boy,” his mother says, glancing up from under the shelter of her long blonde, hair. “God is all that’s left for us.”  
  
“No,” he breathes, shaking his head and turning away._  
  
There is no God. Only Winchesters.  
  
They’re beautiful, barely human as they move, Dean’s guns sparking against the air, Sam’s blade flashing, words like death itself coming from his mouth.  
  
The sky is dark, and Daniel turns his face to it, eyelids closing against Dean’s gunfire, ears shutting out the noise of the dead and dying.  
  
The moon. It’s there-- bare crescent on the edge of the horizon, but it’s there. He can feel it; song of the hunt singing through his veins. Everything is silent now, in the darkness, bodies of his new group staining the ground red, Sam and Dean the last two standing, smell of gun powder and magic thick on the heavy air.  
  
He knows now, understands why he lived when the rest of his last group died; can feel the change deep inside him, blood boiling in his veins.  
  
He is man and animal both; a beast that cannot be caged.  
  
Sam and Dean stand before him, everyone else dead, their bodies stinking of death and blood.  
  
“You knew,” he grates, lowering his head, opening his eyes. “You knew they were the pack the whole time.”  
  
Dean bites his lower lip and nods slowly. “We suspected.”  
  
His whole group killed, Daniel the only survivor.  
  
“This is why I lived.”  
  
The brick house in the suburbs is still there somewhere, black paint soiling it like a mark of Cain; the only sign to mark his passing.  
  
_“God will forgive you your sins, Daniel. It is only through him that we are made clean, born anew.”  
  
“You believe that?” he asks, venomous as any sixteen-year-old could be.  
  
His mother bows her head, face hidden by her hair. “There’s nothing else left in this world.”  
  
“There are Winchesters,” he answers, borne up by the truth of it.  
  
“They didn’t save us.” His mother’s laugh is short, harsh. “They delivered us into evil.”  
  
“We’re still here,” he tells her, voice like steel._  
  
He’s here, still here, still alive, and no better off than his mother, still praying for something to believe in when there’s nothing left to hope for.  
  
_“But we’re not the heroes,” she breathes, hands touching his face. “I love you, Danny. I only tell you this because I love you.”_  
  
He blinks back the water of his tears, deeper part of him shunning them as weakness, hands flexing, gun falling to the soft earth beside him.  
  
“You were a good guy, Danny-boy,” Dean says, settling a hand on Daniel’s shoulder.  
  
You were.  
  
You _were._  
  
He stares Dean straight in the eye; dark green, pupils taut, centered. And it's this—just _this_ at the end of his life; last thought given for the dead and dying and wish for a life that could have been.  
  
He wants it all, wants everything. Feels it; tightness in his veins, rush of heated blood, bright flash of _need_. Skin wrinkling, transforming, changing.  
  
"I believed in you. I called you."  
  
He feels the change set in, seconds before it happens. Raging beast, caged inside his chest, angry and pacing. Wanting. Needing.  
  
_Kill_ , it sings.  
  
"I didn't want this," he says, lips numb.  
  
"Neither did we," Dean says. His face is somber, like the sky over a funeral, twisted hard, creased with worn lines. Behind him, Sam just stares, dark eyes like empty pits. Like a man who's seen this too many times before.  
  
Dean lifts his gun, and Daniel closes his eyes. Tilts his head back and feels the rain drip from the trees, slip inside his mouth. It tastes like salt, like tears, vague echo of want on its heels, like something not quite satisfied.  
  
His heart pounds inside his chest, beats like a feral thing, and he can feel his fingers give way, bones crackling and splitting, reforming; into something strange, something deadly and calculated. Sharp, so sharp, and he grits his teeth, bites back the feel of it.  
  
_Fuck you_ , he thinks at it. His mouth splits in a grin, too many teeth—so many teeth—but it doesn't matter. He smiles. Smiles and opens his eyes to the night. Opens his arms and calls it home.  
  
"Do it," he whispers.  
  
He hears Dean's shot before it takes him, has a moment to wish he'd seen the sun again first.  
  
He goes to the ground; thinks _Mother_ , not God.


End file.
